Free The Sayers Swindle (A Book Collector Mystery) by Victoria Abbott Page A

in the hospital for quite a while and is recovering from a head injury.” I left out the details of the attacks and the memory loss. “I am just here as friend and chauffeur. I also pack, carry and unpack boxes as required.” I smiled to show how harmless I was. I also decided not to tell this woman that I was thinking of buying Karen’s business. One less lie.
    Karen interjected along with her lopsided grin, “I could get addicted to this service. I’m not sure how I’ll survive without staff. I’m spoiled rotten now.”
    The smile, the grin, the little jokes fell flat. From the look on this woman’s lovely face, we were as unwelcome as a pair of skunks at a garden party. It takes more than that of course to derail anyone with Kelly genes. My experience may have been limited, but I was old enough to know that this kind of stalling was usually because someone had something to hide.
    I stepped into the doorway, causing her to have to step back into the house. Before she could regain her door-blocking spot, I turned and gave Karen a hand to get over the threshold. I kept babbling about how much I loved Craftsman designs, and Karen made an effort to make her way farther into the house. “We just need to speak to Mr. Adams for a couple of minutes,” Karen said, moving steadily toward what would be the living room.
    “He is not at all well,” the woman said, now attempting to insert herself between us and the figure in the leather chair by the fireplace where a warm fire beckoned. “He shouldn’t be disturbed.”
    “We won’t be a sec.”
    “Delilah, my sweet,” came a mellifluous voice from the leather chair in front of the flickering fire. “You must make our guests feel welcome. Stop worrying. I am just fine. More than fine.”
    I thought she swayed at the sound of the voice. At that moment she seemed like a pale, beautiful ghost, a shimmering reminder of a long-ago tragedy.
    Karen took advantage of the moment to press forward and grasp the hands of the man in the chair. “Thank you so much for seeing us. I know it may not be the best of times.”
    I tried to concentrate on the conversation rather than drooling over the interior of the house, which was indeed quite drool-worthy with all that fabulous woodwork. The living room had three luxurious cognac-leather chairs and a matching tufted sofa that could swallow you whole while you cried out with pleasure. Not the type you got as a set from a bargain furniture store, but original pieces that were custom-built for thousands of dollars each.
    The modern art on the walls contrasted nicely with the traditional Craftsman interior. Two large canvases in the living room had punches of red, streaked with what looked like thin gold leaf swirls in abstract patterns. Not a style I recognized and not my taste, but masterful and obviously investment pieces. A third one was visible through the arch to the large dining room, as were the floor-to-ceiling custom wine racks. Like the books, the wine would have been better in a controlled climate.
    Although it partly explained the security, all the art and fine wine did seem wasted on these Adamses. Despite everything, 87 Lincoln Way seemed anything but homey. They hadn’t even completely unpacked, although the nosy neighbor had mentioned they’d been there for nearly three years. I counted five boxes stacked outside the dining room. I reminded myself to be a bit kinder, as it couldn’t be easy for Delilah looking after Randolph and having an adolescent son to boot.
    Randolph was gazing into Karen’s eyes as if she were the only woman in the world, never mind the room. “It is indeed the best of times. What else could it be when books are involved? Anything to do with books is always right and always timely.”
    “Exactly,” I said. This was a relief. The man in the chair by the fireplace was as lively and cheerful as Delilah was pale and bitter. His longish wavy silver hair and chiseled features could have won him any